


The Power of Promise

by Eggburtshamslice



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Otabek Altin cameo, mentions of Viktor, mentions of Yuri Katsuki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:29:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15059183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggburtshamslice/pseuds/Eggburtshamslice
Summary: A stone dropped in a pond calm.  One can never tell how far a ripple will go, nor what it will change as it dissipates. So it is with a promise to protect something precious; it stretches forth into time, its power reaching beyond the lives of obligor and obligee.  Yuri Plisetsky, object of the promise.This began as a means to identify those unknown ripples and the impact they have on Yuri’s life.  We come to understand how perfect was the music selected for his programs.  On Love Agape; gratitude for the love he already knew and trusted.  Allegro Appassionato; powerful, conflicting emotions for a love he was coming to know and accept.   Welcome to the Madness; the dynamic expression of how Yuri seeks to combine and embrace the love awaiting him.Yuri Plisetsky, life and love. Parentage, promises and their impact reflected in the music of his programs. On Love Agape: gratitude for love he already knew; Allegro Appassionato:conflicting emotions of love he was coming to understand and Welcome to the Madness: dynamic, fearless result of love acknowledged and reciprocated. Old folks in the spotlight. Nikolai, Yakov, Lilia.





	1. A Promise Made

"People shine the brightest when they seek to understand what kind of love sustains them."

_Lilia Baranovskaya_

* * *

“Come now … he’s calling for you.”

Thrust into a white tiled room with lights stunningly bright, it is the smell and noise he finds overwhelming.  A moment for his eyes to adjust; their focus on the intravenous lines bouncing and swaying like sad weeping willow branches above the gurney in the center of the room. Scissors tear through fabric as he breaks the ranks of multicolored scrubs that he might see clearly the spatters of blood and limbs hideously contused and contorted. Instinctively does his hand reach out, that it might wipe away lines of pain etched into a pallid brow.  A jumble of nonsensical words spill from lips tinged blue as he timidly leans closer to the prone figure. 

"Papa … little time.  My child … love.  Must ... plead with her--”

“Yulian ...hush now.” Pushing away a blood soaked strand of hair, he cups the young man's cheek and whispers, “Everything is going to be alright."

The man on the gurney slowly blinks; a nominal shake of his head signifying an unspoken 'No.'

 _What is one supposed to do ... to say, or think ... as they watch the light of life dim from the eyes of their only child?_ Swallowing around the bitter lump in his throat, fighting to keep his voice even Nikolai manages, “There now, you see?  Stubborn like your mother …stout of heart … like your old man.  This child ... your child, will grow strong and brave … you'll see Yulian--”

"Sir," a harsh voice and soft hand lands on his forearm, "you must leave now!"

Optimism buoyant, sinks like a stone when a cool pale hand tightens around his.  And in that moment … Nikolai hated that he knew ... the end was near.

“Papa … she’s … stubborn.  Swear … you protect … my child.  Swear it--!"

 Dark green eyes flutter as the hand holding his suddenly falls slack. 

"Yulian?"

Statistics shouted above the noise of alarms shrieking and monitors flashing indecipherable messages.   Nikolai, brusquely shoved aside as his son stirs once more, his voice ringing out for the last time;

"Promise … Papa!"

 "Yulian!"

In a blink, a staffer straddles his son’s midsection administering chest compressions as they steer the gurney from the room.  Dumbfounded, he watches them race around a corner. Without conscious bidding do his legs carry him after the medics; his eyes unblinking, recording the scene without commentary as they streak toward a waiting elevator; his heart screaming that they do all humanly possible to save his son.  And as the doors close, his stomach ties itself in knots.  Whispered encouragements and solemn promises, absorbed into slick white vinyl flooring.

_Yulian._

Dazed, he turns, wandering down the bustling hall, a wail of sirens and the flashing lights of an incoming ambulance guiding him to the emergency ward waiting area. His wife Elizaveta, sits in the far corner of the empty room.  Hands folded in her lap, head bowed, she rocks herself against a hard molded plastic chair.  Tears collect in the lines of her cheeks; worried fingers hold tight years old prayer beads as she recites the practiced supplications which a heart in tatters no longer believed.  

Devoid of comfort to give, too numb to receive succor, he veers right.  One foot in front of the other, coming to halt before large plate glass windows, staring out into the void of this, his darkest night. The heavens do what he cannot; breaking open, they pour down torrential rains.  Hail peppers an aluminum shingled overhang as lightning shreds menacing purplish black clouds and deafening claps of thunder rumble. 

Through it all, the sound of two hearts breaking, drowns out nature’s fury.

Frozen in grief, he and Elizaveta silently count down the seconds, both knowing it won’t be long until a somber faced doctor comes with news they don’t wish to hear …but already know.

**-***-**

One day, a four-hour train trip, and thirty-minute taxi cab ride find Nikolai standing on the stoop of a modest brick building in St. Petersburg.  Daubing away intractable tears with the cuff of his sleeve, he mindlessly pokes at a bell simply marked L.B.  At the noise of quick purposeful steps coming from the other side of the door, his posture straightens; when the barrier between them suddenly swings open, his breath catches in his throat.

  “Who the hell are you,” a tall dark haired woman demands, “and what do you want?”

A crooked trail of tears is evident through rouged cheeks; her voice a dagger, piercing the carefully crafted bubble of denial and sorrow he'd hidden inside these past hours. With a tiny step backward and eyes lowered, traitorous lips spill forth a reality most cruel.

"My son … Yulian Plisetsky … is dead."

The atmosphere shifts around them in an instant.  Like a fist to the gut, realization strikes; her body tenses and eyes narrow at the mention of this name.  As it was in the hospital that fateful night, his perception becomes keener than he wished.  Without looking at her, Nikolai feels those proud shoulders droop, he hears the superior quirk of her eyebrow plummeting level. 

"No," slips quietly from her tense set lips.

So bold and selfish, so loud and insistent the demand inside his head, yet so soft when finally formulated into words intelligible.  "Yulian’s only thoughts were of the child growing in your belly.  His hope was that it know love. Please ma’am … will you honor his dying request?”

 “You dare discuss this where anyone can overhear? Come,” she hissed, tugging at Nikolai’s lapels until he stumbled over the threshold.  The door slammed and lock bolted behind them, she quietly asked, “How did he die?”

Unable to meet those piercing eyes when she moved to stand before him, Nikolai mumbled, “A mind perturbed … a heart shattered, behind the wheel of a high-powered sports car in a driving rain … it was a terrible combination. I've no idea how these things work ...the police used his phone … tracked the last location he visited--”

“My home ... I see.  And with the power of the Plisetsky lawyers at your back, you've come to threaten me like Yulian did … is that right?  Or could it be … you wanted the satisfaction of spitting in my face as you curse me for his death?”

The foyer closes in on them, the specter of her lover and his son, simultaneously linking them together while forcing a wedge between them.

“Yulian made me promise to stand in his stead … that you might reconsider the child’s fate--”

“My condolences, but surely you must understand, I have my own life to think of.  Newly promoted to first soloist … I’m engaged to be married in six months’ time and--”

"Ma’am … I pray your mercy.”  Nikolai drops to one knee, his head bowed and voice thin. “Let this child live ... please.  My wife and I … we will raise it as a tribute to the memory of our son--”

“I have no intention--”

“If it’s money you want or need, I come with an offer most generous.  At this point, I'd surrender my soul ... if you required it--”

“Then are you a man most foolish.”  With arms crossed beneath her bosom, she fixes him with an icy stare.  “Years of training for an opportunity of a lifetime … flung to the winds in one drunken night and one sweaty five minute tryst.  No … never again will I allow emotion to overrule sound judgment--” 

 “Are you saying Yulian meant nothing to you?”

“He was a patron,” she spat, “one of many! When I told him I was pregnant, he was ecstatic; couldn't shut him up … he rattled on about providing a life of luxury and ease for me as a housebound kept woman.  When I said I would not keep it, he turned into a raging beast … dashing about, yelling, breaking furniture ... threatening to drag me into a court of law before he stormed out of here--!”

 “Miss, we’re talking about an innocent life, the product of two foolish adults rutting like animals!  How could you think of ripping it from your womb …chucking it down the pan as if it too were nothing?"

“I have every right to choose what happens to and with my body--!”

“And what if you change your mind … decide to keep it? Then what? I couldn’t live with myself knowing a flighty promiscuous ballerina was dragging my grandchild from pillar to post … chasing after the favors of god knows how many more ‘patrons’!”

He never saw it coming.

The slap sounded moreso like a shotgun blast inside the small space.  Baffled, he sat looking up at her, his back jammed against the closed door. And for the next several minutes, they rest astonished; their harsh breaths, pushing back the walls which are now crumbling between them.

 “Heartbroken father ... grieving his only son,” he said pushing himself to stand, “demanding alteration of your life to ease my pain; I was wrong. Forgive me.”  The hat she’d knocked askew crushed in his hand, again he humbly inclined his head. “I leave now knowing I tried my best … it must suffice.”  Having maneuvered his body just so, the latch slides back a few notches and cool air rushes past his burning cheek as he makes to leave. “Yulian’s funeral is tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder. “It is a promise … never again will I darken your path Miss--"

“Just the other day,” her words carry on the breeze as his heel strikes the stoop, “our troupe choreographer pulled me aside to say,

' _By the age of twenty-five, a ballerina’s dancing days are normally over.  I think it’s time to retire the pointe shoes, don’t you? Go, become someone’s wife or a teacher to those up and coming; that way your existence has meaning.’_

“I am twenty eight years old Mr. Plisetsky. All my life, I’ve fought to prove wrong bastards like him.  And with God as my witness, I will keep on proving them wrong. But I can't do that with a child lashed to my side.”  Nikolai paused but did not turn around as she continued speaking.  “The one thing that gives me reason to get out of bed every day, the only life I’ve ever known comes with a manmade expiration date ... it’s not fair.  And then,” he heard her pull a crumpled piece of paper from her skirt pocket, “this came in the morning post … a letter from my doctor. 

‘ _Given my age’_ , she read, _‘if I wish for children in the future_ , _termination of this pregnancy is deemed unwise_.’

Now you appear on my doorstep.” The bitterness in her voice turns him in time to watch her slump against the opposite wall. “Another thoughtless man trying to exert control over my body ... so sick of it!”

Nikolai approached her as one would any wounded beautiful beast; his heartbeat quickening when she reached out for him.  This woman, a tower of strength who moments before stood defiant, slowly crumples in on herself.  And when her knees buckle, he is there, pulling her close; when her forehead bumps his chest, sorrow binds them in its clutches while bitter tears wrack their bodies.

Later, china cups clink against their saucers in her sumptuously furnished living room; crinkles in their plans, smooth out over honeyed tea.  Early morning glides into late afternoon as they agree on new directions for their lives.  The next day, lawyers sit between them in the sterile confines of a conference room. Fine point pen nibs scratch the surface of heavyweight papers ...the gratitude of one man overflows as they hammer out each detail; a heavy burden lifts from delicate shoulders of a desperate young woman.

An injury feigned, a wedding postponed … a lofty life long opportunity, temporarily shelved.  Thereafter follows a whirlwind of adjustment, from life in the big city, to a quiet existence on a remote dacha at the Plisetsky residence in Samara.

Months pass and then came the pain, 

descending as a seismic wave; in one fell swoop does it destroy the family unit she'd come to know and trust.  A gruff midwife severs the cord; a new lease on life granted her, and the child she thought she never wanted.   The cries of a babe who lived and moved inside her now fill her ears as she willingly hands it off … never to see its face.

 

Notes:

Obligator:  one who has an obligation to do something or refrain from doing something under the terms of an agreement.

Obligee:  a person to whom another is bound by contract or other legal procedure.

Dacha: Russian country house or cottage, typically used as a second or vacation home.

Samara is the sixth largest country in Russia, framed by the Volga and Samara rivers; approximately fifteen hours from Moscow.


	2. A Promise Kept

Eighteen months later,

the patient fiancé left behind, becomes a husband; their letters of love and longing which kept them close, now tucked away inside the cedar chest at the foot of their marriage bed.  A slot in the ballet company recently vacated, she assumes with vigor anew. 

Three years married,

and those years an ugly, poorly stitched quilt of stinging disappointment and heart bursting joy. Sidelined by an ectopic pregnancy, an ill-fated confession whispered when death beckoned her come … now is she amicably divorced, but never alone. Yakov Feltsman, ex-husband, renowned figure skating coach with a string of champions to his credit; the only man who loved and never truly lost her.  Publicly, they were like a prickly pair of cacti, exchanging verbal jabs which shocked their friends and doubled them over in laughter.  But in those rare private times together, where the façades of fame and the pursuit of success melt away, they shut out the world easing into the roles of warm and cozy security blankets for one another.  And though he pines for her still, Yakov contents himself, carefully maintaining a respectful and professional distance on the outer fringes of her life.

Behind her otherworldly technical virtuosity were unseen years of blood, sweat and tears which finally brought her to the pinnacle of success; prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet.  A white hot star much beloved in her home country, the recipient of numerous national and international awards and acclaim for powerfully evocative performances which put to shame dancers half her age.  Nowadays her life is chock full of activity as a mentor, motivational speaker, highly sought after choreographer and teacher.

**-***-**

A few years later and after numerous phone calls exchanged, a break in the competitive skating season finds Yakov sitting at meat in the home of his old friend … Nikolai Plisetsky.

“Still a good cook Nika,” he said depositing his napkin on the table. “Can’t remember the last time we had the chance to just sit and talk.  How long has it been?”

“Twenty wrinkles ago,” he called from the kitchen.  Sitting down a tray of pickles, pumpernickel and two shot glasses before him, Nikolai returns from whence he came.  Over the sound of a hammer cracking a wax cast to pieces in the sink, he said, “Last time we talked, you were about to go off to get yourself married--”

“I think not.  Surely it’s been more recent than that--”

“You are a terrible friend with a terrible memory Yaki; I forgive you this.  I even forgive you for never introducing me to your wife … matters little now, you’re divorced, or so I heard.”

Rolling his eyes and quickly changing the subject, Yakov pointed to the ice cold bottle in Nikolai’s hand.  “Beluga Gold Line huh?  Have to assume that was a gift--”

“Of course … you think I spend this much money on an awful friend like you? I keep this for special occasion.  Since we haven’t seen each other in five hundred years, doesn’t get more special than that huh? So,” he huffed struggling to uncork the bottle, “you still keep in touch with that woman?”

 “Yeah,” he sighed, “but these days it’s strictly business--”

“Almost forgot what a terrible liar you were too,” Nicolai laughed, “your eyes say you still care for her--”

“What of it?  A crime to love only one woman?”

“If that were true, I’d be in jail.  So, now we drink to great loves lost,” he said as the vodka flowed from the bottle.

 With the essences of vanilla and spices lingering on his palate, Yakov’s his eyes slip closed. “Success,” he said when the bottom of his glass slammed against the table, “came naturally to us, … left little time for anything else.  I was … and still am, very proud of her achievements Nika.  Okay, no more sad talk,” he said reaching for a pickle, “we move to neutral subjects da? Go on …  tell me of your grandchildren--”

“Grandson,” he corrected before knocking back a shot. “Yulian’s boy.”

This time around, Yakov quietly pours another drink, allowing his friend a moment of reflection.  “How old is he now?"

"Eight, this March.  And I tell you, Yaki … he is wunderkind.”  Reaching for a slice of bread, he sniffed at it saying, “Russia’s next great hockey legend sleeps under my roof."

"Sure … and this alleged prodigy is where?"

 “Ah," he said, peering over Yakov's head to the clock over the television, "almost time I pick him up from school.  You will observe his practicing and tell me what you think.”

"Knew you were setting me up for something Nika.  Alright,” he sighed before slugging down another shot, “let’s get this over with."

**-***-**

Watching the little blond haired boy streak across the schoolyard and joyously leap into Nikolai’s arms, Yakov couldn’t keep himself from smiling if he tried. 

 _The spitting image of Yulian_ , he thought. _Same enthusiasm, same bright eyed smile_ … _god … must be hard on the old man._

But while Yulian was a polite, obedient child possessed of a quiet disposition, it was readily apparent his son inherited none of those traits. Immediately upon introduction, a grunt of acknowledgement and a tiny scowl were as good as Yakov would get.  _I am a stranger to him after all,_ he reasoned.  From the moment the kid climbed into the car, he spoke not another word; _fuming about something_ , or so Yakov surmised from the way those tiny feet rhythmically booted the underside of his seat.

“No wonder you have a bad back Nika.”

“What’s that?”

“I mean … this rust bucket of a car,” he said throwing a threatening glance over his shoulder. “Don’t you think it time for an upgrade?”

“How long you know me Yaki … am I fancy man?  No. To church, to school, to market; this suits my needs--”

“You bought this thing back when I had a full head of hair for god sake!  Gee, talk about squeezing ink from a ruble--”

“Hey!” rumbled from the back seat accompanied by a swift kick, “hush your mouth old man!”

“Yurochka … is okay; friends say jokes to another.”

“Well," the child’s last kick to the underside of the seat was delivered with a threat, "nobody makes jokes of my Grandpa … or else.”

“It is enough!  Now we are here.  Yuri, don’t forget your water bottle.”

“Okay Papa.” And with that, the angry little hellcat from the backseat transformed in a starry eyed little angel, merrily skipping ahead of them. 

  Unfolding himself from the cramped Moskvitch 444, Yakov rubbed at his back.  “Sure we’re in the right place?  This looks like an old factory warehouse--”

 “It was,” Nikolai said as he opened the trunk, “now is sports arena.”

Inside the sparsely lit rink that smelled of sweat and old wood, Nikolai patiently laces up the too large skates on the fidgeting child.  "Elizaveta spoiled him rotten you know.  Result … impatience and quite the temper when he doesn’t get what he wants when he wants it.”

“You don't say?  Never would've have guessed that.”

Like a tiger hiding in the brush, the child's brilliant green eyes bored through him behind tawny fringes as if daring him to utter another word.

 “After she died, my Yuri had a rough time of it.  One of his counselors said he had ‘trust and abandonment issues' ... whatever that meant.  Around the same time, older boys in school start picking on him.  Because he is small for his age they called him ‘girly,’ hah!  My Yuri never once backed down from a fight; he is scrapper … very wiry.  I teach him to defend himself … result?  Too many days I spend more time in principal’s office than he does in classroom, so … there you go." 

The child frowned, miffed his grandfather would rehash this story; Nikolai seemed not to notice.  Fine textured blond hair ruffles under a calloused hand as his friend gives the boy a huge grin and helps him stand. "Finally, one of his counselors talked sense, ‘involvement in intense physical activity is best way for him to let out aggression,’ he said.  So, my Yuri chose hockey.”

Yakov glanced down at the gangly child, barely able to keep his balance under the weight of the equipment, his eyes steelier than any seven-year old’s should be.  “The sport will provide him discipline but Nika, he's a string bean. Look at his frame … he’ll never be solid enough to play competitively--"

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about old man!" the little boy shouted.

"Yurochka … apologize."

“No!”  Folding stick thin arms across his chest with a huff, the boy insisted, "I'm gonna be the best hockey player in the world, not just Russia!  You'll see--"

“Oh, yeah… then prove it,” Yakov taunted.  “Show me your greatness little one.”

With a gleam in his eye, the skate guards went flying as the boy took to the ice, ignoring the voices of his instructors who were still setting up an agility course.

Quietly impressed with the boy’s nascent skills, Yakov concedes, “He’s talented alright ...very confident.  And it’s obvious he enjoys skating, however, that won’t be enough.  I still say this isn’t the sport for him. The kid has the body of a figure skater--”

"I should be surprised you’d think that Yaki?”

“It’s all about potential … know it when I see it.  Must I remind you? I took the namesake grandson of one the greatest Soviet hockey players … Viktor Nikforov and I turned him into an ice skating champion--”

“Yes, yes … I’ve heard it all before,” he laughed.  "Still, I don’t know of any figure skating programs for someone Yuri’s age, especially state funded ones--"

"Pfft … state funding.  Nika, you live like a peasant, but you’ve more money than the national bank.”  With his eyes still following the boy as he sped over the ice, he added, "I’ve got a training camp starting soon.  Bring him up, let him try it out; if he likes it, I’ll put you in contact with some coaches here in Moscow.  If he wants to stick with it, I might be able to get him into a program in St. Petersburg--"

“Long way to travel for training.  And Yaki, apart from you I don’t know anyone there.  Does this mean you're offering to be his coach?"

“Whoa … cart before the horse Nika. I’ll need to talk to his mother first … get a signed consent waiver from her before we--”

“Nyet!  Yulian is gone, the woman who birthed him … off somewhere chasing a career,” he snapped. “Elizaveta he called Mama and me, Papa; we were his guardians … the only parents he’s ever known--!”

 “Alright, alright,” Yakov held high his hands, attempting to stave off the other man’s rising ire, “calm yourself.  If ever it gets to a point where the kid want to pursue figure skating professionally … I’ll offer my services at a reduced rate, until he can take part in and win competitions of course."

“We shake on it,” Nikolai said. “You will take care of my Yuri … is promise?”

Convinced the kid would give up in less than a month, Yakov snorted “Fine. If we get that far, I promise to coach and take care of the kid.”

 

Notes:

Ectopic pregnancy: complication of pregnancy where the embryo attaches outside the uterus; the vast majority of ectopic pregnancies implant in the Fallopian tube. It is the most common cause of death among women during the first trimester.

Beluga Gold Line:  Russia's ultra premium vodka. The Itkul Factory (est. 1868) is said to be located in an environmentally pure region of the Republic of Altai. This is a remote area of the Siberian Taiga located at the very center of Asia in between the steppes of Kazakhstan and semi-arid deserts of Mongolia. The key to this location is the purity of the natural environment that surrounds the distillery. For Beluga Gold Line, the malt spirit and artesian water undergoes an additional filtration through a birch charcoal filter (impregnated with silver), and afterwards an additional quartz sand filtration. Each bottle follows a unique numbering system and the construction of a muzzled cork closure with a hot waxed seal. It is presented in a leather gift box along with a hammer and brush to break and sweep away remnants of the seal around the cork.

Wunderkind:  person who achieves great success when relatively young.

Moskvitch 444:  a Soviet/Russian automobile brand produced by AZLK from 1946 to 1991 and by OAO Moskvitch from 1991 to 2001.  The word ‘moskovitch’ translates as " _a native of Moscow, a Moscovite_ ". It was used to point out the original location of the cars manufactured in the capital of Russia, Moscow. Affordable and sturdy.

The real Viktor Vasilievich Nikiforov was a Soviet ice hockey player, who won a gold medal at the 1956 Winter Olympics. He was born in Moscow, Soviet Union.


	3. A Seed Planted

And as it is wont to do … time moves on.

With Nikolai’s blessing and despite their often antagonistic relationship, Yakov keeps his word, standing in loco parentis for Yuri.  Under his tutelage or perhaps, in spite it, the child flourishes.  

Freedom of expression and more importantly, the chance to shine as an individual … these were the lures of figure skating which dragged him in and kept him chasing after an elusive goal.  Acknowledgement of his talent and financial rewards ... these were figure skating’s promises; opportunities to show himself worthy, to ease the burden from his grandfather’s shoulders, and the means of showing appreciation for sacrifices made on his behalf … these fueled the fire in his belly. 

Yuri approached each competition with military like precision, he was relentless in the scrutiny of his opponents, searching for weaknesses in mien or character both on and off the ice.  Quick of wit and crude of mouth he’d systematically rattle their confidence through word or deed and then use the shattered pieces of their esteem as stepping stones to the winner’s podium.  He knew as did they, that he possessed both the technical skill and natural ability to back up the behavior. Thus, he was known among his peers and their coaches as ‘The Russian Punk.’

He lived to make liars of those who dared underestimate him. 

Each year’s successes attracted more sponsors and by exceeding the expectations of his coaches and mentors, numerous awards and accolades were laid at his feet.  Onto slim shoulders hung the titles of ‘prodigy’ … ‘rising star’ …   and, ‘the one to watch.'   But thanks to a throwaway comment by a talkative sports announcer, he garnered another title he could not shake. Not for his prowess or competitive spirit, but because of a willowy build and gracefulness on the ice he picked up the moniker:

'The Russian Fairy.' 

He hated it with a passion.

At the tender age of twelve, Yuri Plisetsky anchors his place into St. Petersburg life, a reputation as a fierce, calculating competitor and loudmouth provocateur preceding him. In these he reveled, wearing them as medals of honor.

Daily phone calls and extended visits between training kept Nikolai and Yuri up to date with the other’s life and accomplishments.

“Last week, I plant my garden by the dacha.  Result?  Next time you are home, we make pickles--”

"Grandpa, I send you money so that you can get somebody to do that for you; it’s bad for your back … you know that--”

“Hah!  Fresh air and exercise ... is good for me--”

“Good for the chiropractor you mean.  So stubborn,” he mumbled.  “Anyway, I did a quadruple Salchow in competition today… huh? No, it's a jump. Yakov yelled about it afterwards, but it showed him I'm ready for bigger things.   School," he sucked at his teeth and rolled his eyes, "yeah, still hate it, but not failing classes anymore; Viktor helps me sometimes, so does Mila, when she's not mooning over her boyfriend. Yes, Deda, I know … there's life beyond skating.  Anyways … gotta go,; I'll talk to you later, okay?"  There was a rustling noise before the next voice crackled through the other end of the phone. 

"Nika … he's making tremendous progress.  Did Yuri tell you the news?  He’s going to compete in his first Junior Worlds next season--”

“This a good thing, yes?”

“Any chance to showcase his skill on an international scale is a good thing; exposes him to a larger base of potential patrons. Which reminds me ... tonight I'm getting together with an old friend for dinner and drinks.  Pretty sure we can get Yuri into another program for gifted skaters. Nika? Are you listening to me?"

Surrounded by photos of his wife, son and grandson, Nikolai leans back in his favorite recliner, beaming with pride.

**-***-**

 An impromptu round of applause floats through the restaurant which Yakov takes  as a cue to rise from his seat.   As his guest approaches, the glowing smile plastered on for admiring fans, slowly gives way to the trademark inscrutable grin reserved just for him. 

“Glad you could join me this evening. It’s been a while--”

“Upscale restaurant, candlelight … champagne chilling,” she noted as he held out the chair, “and you in a suit?  Out with it Yakov … which one of your little protégés needs something this time?”

“Am I that predictable?  Ah well, better the devil you know, eh?"

"Get to the point--"

"I see your patience hasn't improved since last we met Lilia, so here's the deal.  You have a vast network of connections in the arts community, which I need access to. And honestly, who else would I turn to?” Her answer was a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. "Anyway, I got this kid ... exceptionally talented, but lacking major sponsors;I was hoping you could make introductions possible ...you know, slip the kid into one of those virtuoso programs--?"

“That's it?  Yakov, this is something you could have handled on your own--"

“True … if only I had the time--”

“A phone call would have sufficed, but for all of this,” she gestured at the table, “you find time?”

“We both know you would've hung up long before I could ask for assistance. This way I get to watch your adorable grimace before you reject me," he laughed.  "Now, are we going to sit down and talk or shall we continue blocking the path?"

Coat still unopened, arms folded across her chest and the impatient tapping of her foot, were the only responses she willingly gave.

"Lilia, you would deprive me the one pleasure I get from our meetings?  What a shame, because no one gives a tongue lashing better than you,” he said as she reluctantly loosened her coat and settled into the proffered seat. “You know what a glutton I am for your punishment--” 

“Humpf … then I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

 _That's my_ girl, he thought as the coat slipped from her shoulders and the clutch bag rested in her lap. With eyebrow raised and lips set to speak, the sudden table side appearance of their sommelier stifled his response, but not his smile.  Serving up smoked salmon and capers with flare, he makes small talk and dining recommendations while filling their flutes.  Thankfully, he was gone as quickly as he’d come.

“Here's to continued friendship,” Yakov said, “and a fruitful meeting.”

“We’ll see,” she cautioned, touching her flute to his.

Good food and wine, remembrances of times past, mellowed the tone of their conversation.

“As it happens, I know of a program soon to start; it's for ballerinas only I’m afraid."  The last morsel of filet mignon speared with her fork, she lifted her eyes and asked, "This child … how old is she?"

“He … is twelve--"

“No.  Much too old for consideration--"

“But the kid’s a quick study; I had him take ballet lessons for cross training in the past and--”

“Yakov," said around a bite, "I’ve told you time and again… one does not ‘take’ ballet; one studies the art. It must be wholly lived or it is a waste.”

“And as I said when you worked with Viktor …  I want this kid to be a more graceful figure skater, not a ballet dancer. Come on,  help me out … for old time’s sake?”

“Fine,” came out with a heavy sigh. “I’ll set up an appointment at Vaganova Academy for an evaluation. Based on their recommendations, I can make a few calls, but I promise nothing beyond that--”

“Good enough,” he said raising his glass for another toast.  “This kid’s gift will make room for him.”

**-***-**

Later that same evening, conversation between Nikolai and his grandson was unusually animated.

“Grandpa!  It’s not my birthday or anything! Why did you--?”

“Yuratchka … you don't like your gift?”

“No!  I mean like, wow! I was just so surprised when they delivered him to the rink--!” 

“So, is better than the video game box thing?”

“A gazillion times better--”

“Then I am thrilled!  Don’t forget, this is a commitment--”

“I’ll take good care of him, I promise.  He’s really cool Grandpa.  And I already decided to name him, Puma Tiger Scorpion, cause he’s all kinda fierce … like me. Huh?  It’s a girl?  Oh, in that case, we’ll call her Potya for short.  Anyway, Viktor said he'd take me to get food, a brush and a litter box after practice … say what now?”   

“The breeder … he says Ragdoll cats make great company keepers.  I know, you think you’re better off alone, but the Internets with their Goggles and such are not suitable companions Yuri.  Result …I choose something better for you--”

“Are we gonna do this again? Deda, I’m surrounded by annoying kids at school in the morning and boring old people in the evening. Che! That’s more human interaction than I--”

“Hush now, having of companions is not a liability--”

“Alright, alright. I like the cat; she’s perfect.  Now, on a totally unrelated subject, Yakov says I might get another big sponsor soon, that way you won’t have to send so much money every month.  Yeah, I know … doing for me makes you happy, but you do so much. I just want you to enjoy yourself and not worry about me all the time--”

“Is no worry, Yuratchka ... I love you.  I spend my days thinking only of your happiness and what is best for you.”

“That's kinda mushy,” he said turning away from his rink mates. “But," he looked over his shoulder and cupped a gloved hand over the mouthpiece to whisper, "before I go ...I um … love you too, Grandpa.”

Notes:

 _In loco parentis:_ a legal doctrine under which an individual assumes parental rights, duties and obligations without going through the formalities of legal adoption.

Provocateur:  one who provokes trouble, causes dissension; agitator.

The Vaganova Academy:  school of classical ballet located in Saint Petersburg Russia.  Once known as the Imperial Ballet school and as the Leningrad State Choreographic Institute. In 1957, the school was renamed in honor of Agrippina Vaganova, who cultivated the method of classical ballet training that has been taught there since the late 1920s. Graduates of the school include some of the most famous ballet dancers, choreographers and teachers in history and many of the world's leading ballet schools have adopted elements of the Vaganova method into their own training.  The Vaganova Academy is the associate school of the Mariinsky Ballet, one of the world's leading ballet companies. Students of the school have found employment with ballet and contemporary companies worldwide, such as the Bolshoi Ballet, The Royal Ball, American Ballet Theatre and the Mikhailovsky Ballet.

Dedulya: endearment for a grandfather.  The Russian name for grandfather is _dedushka_ , used to address one's own grandfather as well as any man of grandfatherly age; sometimes shortened to Deda.


	4. Bending the Sapling

Time continues it's march across the stage of life

pulling back a velvet curtain as it does for a glimpse of fifteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky.  With two consecutive Junior World and two Junior Grand Prix Championships under his belt; still, it is not enough.  The world has yet to stand up and take notice.

“Yuratchka … you are where?”

“Japan.  That stupid idiot Viktor,” he mumbled, “he took the season off to--”

"I am hearing this … big news on the radio every hour.  What does this have to do with--?”

“He promised to be my coach Grandpa!”

“Okay, okay, no yelling--”

“Sorry … I’m at an open air market.  I’m so pissed off right now I can’t see straight!"

"This much I understand, but Yura, the Russian and English ... they run together.  Slow down, tell Deda the problem ... maybe I can fix--"

"Have to do this myself," he breathed.  "Viktor knows it’s my senior debut ... he did this on purpose! He was supposed to choreograph a program for me and then he runs off and announces he's gonna  coach some fat loser pig!"

“But this promise, it  was a long time ago, da? Viktor has many things on his mind.  You call him on the phone, remind him--”

“Already tried that ... he hasn't taken or returned my calls.  I'm gonna drag him back to Russia and make him--”

“Yuratchka, he is grown man; he made the choice to go to Japan.  You come home now; I get for you another coach--”

“No, Grandpa.   Wanna know the worst part?  The pig’s name is Yuri too!  Huh? No … Yakov doesn’t know I’m here--”

“Why you say nothing to him--?”

 “Cause he would've tried to stop me from leaving! Relax, I can take care of myself Deda.  Oh crap, my battery is at three percent… talk to you tonight, okay?”

One day later …

“Grandpa, why’d you call him?”

“He is my friend and your guardian ... someone had to say something. You, traveling alone to a foreign country where you don’t speak the language, is not good Yuratchka.  I hear on the television every night the world is crazy people these days--”

“Yakov is the crazy one!  He thinks I’m gonna quit like Viktor did!  Called me yelling and screaming so many times last night I had to turn my phone off--”

“The man was upset … so was I; anything could’ve happened--”

“But it didn't and I’m safe… okay?”

“Are you in a hotel?  I send you money for plane ticket--”

"Grandpa, it’s fine.  The other Yuri’s family invited me to stay with them …they own an inn with a hot spring and they’re not charging me for the room.  People bathe together here ... I know, it’s gross. But they treat me and Viktor like we're long lost relatives or something ...make us eat even when we don’t want to. Figured you'd like that part.  As for Yakov, he’s just mad because he couldn’t control Viktor then and he can’t control me now--”

"That’s not it, he was frantic--”

"I don’t care!  Don’t either of you understand that  a promise is a promise?" There was a long pause on the other end of the line.  "Grandpa?  You still there?“

"Yura ... I understand what this word means for you. Always a fighter for what you believe is right.  Still," he sighed, "I teach you to be responsible ... you should've let someone know how you are thinking before taking a plane ride to Japan.”

“I'm sorry Deda.  I didn’t mean upset you, but I had to come here  ... had to make sure Viktor would keep his word.  It's just ... I trusted him, you know and when I needed him most, he flaked out."

"I know you, I know Vitya; he forgets sometimes.  You will charge this to his head ... not his heart.  If you sit down and tell him this, he will give regrets."

"Yeah ... he kinda did.  But now he wants to choreograph routines for me and the pig.  We're gonna compete against each other in a week's time.  Viktor will choose who he'll coach after that."

"There you see?  Viktor is wise.  He will select fairly. You must trust  his ability to do this--"

"Hate that I need him … or anybody else.  He knows I’m better than the other Yuri--"

"Maybe he tries to teach you something in this.  This is new division you go into this year, new challenges for you; the fight is harder--”

“He said I need to 'feel' versus 'think'.  It’s stupid.  I’m just gonna keep doing what I been doing; it’s the only way I know how to win--" 

"I know you will do your best Yura; know Grandpa believes this of you."

"I do Deda ... I won't let you down.  Gotta go … it's time for practice.  Call you tonight.”

Six days later …

“Sorry it’s late Grandpa.  Did I wake you?”

“No, no,” he said sitting up in the recliner and wiping sleep from his eyes, “I’m not hearing from you in many days.  Everything is alright Yuratchka?”

“I um … lost; coming back to Russia alone.  Can you … will you pick me up from the airport in the morning?”

“I am calling Yakov.  You stay in my house, rest a few days; we talk.  My home cooking will make everything right--” 

“Thanks Grandpa … here's the flight information--”

Late into that night, a cell phone angrily buzzes on a bedside table far outside his reach.

“What?  Nika calm down … what’s happened?”

“I know he’s lost before … but this one hurts my heart Yaki. Never heard him sound so low--”

“That ‘Hot Springs on Ice’ foolishness? Yeah, it was all over the Instant Grams … his rink mates told me about it--”

“I don’t know what to do.  My Yuratchka is heartbroken--”

“And now I’m rest broken,” he said, flipping on the lamp by the bed.  “Nika, I couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. No one could rival Yuri in his age class … he knew that,  it made him arrogant and unwilling to work hard. Ah, but this …denied by someone he looked up to, bested by someone he considered unworthy … this will make him more determined to practice … it’ll drive him to win--” 

“Such a hard lesson for him, my Yuri is--”

“A grizzly old man, just like his grandfather.  Come on, you know he’s resilient.”

“Yes, but--”

“This is his senior debut on the circuit ... the Grand Prix Finals are at our throats.   Trust me, once he puts his mind to learning new routines, he’ll be fine.  Which reminds me, he's gonna need a new choreographer--”

“New?  What happened to the other one?”

“Everybody’s not like me, Nika; he couldn’t stand the disrespect and constant arguments, so he quit--”

“I will speak with Yuri--”

“Don’t waste your breath.  Viktor choreographed his short program while they were in Japan; I’m sure he’s going to stick with that one just to spite him.  And I already have someone else in mind to arrange his free program and exhibition skate--”

“How much that going to cost me Yaki?”

“Nothing … this one owes me a huge favor.”

**-***-**

The next morning, Yakov paces about in his office, attempting to reason with the person at the other end of the phone.

“Absolutely not.  It’s the only time of year I have to myself; why on earth would I--?”

“Never thought you’d back away from a challenge Lilia.  This is an opportunity for you to branch out … stay relevant--”

“Yakov … I am always relevant--”

“There are tons of ballet instructors and choreographers in St. Petersburg; just wanted my boy to have the very best--”

“Still not interested.  Besides, what I know of figure skating could fill a thimble with room to spare--”

“Leave that part to me.  What he needs most is a strict ballet coach, someone who can make him dig deep, spur him on to greater heights.   He needs someone uncompromising about the art and technique, someone unafraid of his temper; that’s you Lilia--"

“How many times must I say ‘No’ before you understand?  I can’t be bothered--” 

“He came back from Japan ready to fight; a sapling prime for bending.  We’ll be at Yubileyny Sports Palace tomorrow morning at 6:30 a.m.  Give him an hour of your time; he’s worth it … I promise.”

“I’m hanging up now Yakov--”

“Wait.  I got it …you’re right.  This isn’t s job for a crafty veteran.  Someone young and hungry as he is, someone with new ideas ... fire and energy to keep up with him.  Yeah, I’ll call one of the instructors at the Academy.  Sure someone there has the time and inclination to train a firebrand like him -- 

Lilia?

Hello?”

_My god, what have I done?  If she does show up tomorrow, it’ll be like holding a lit match to a powder keg,_ he thought as he replaced the phone in its charger. 

_W _hat am I, crazy?__

**-***-**

7:00 a.m., the next morning, her arrival is announced by the measured click of high heeled boots and the surprised gasps of those assembled. 

“Oh my god,” someone said, “that’s Lilia Baranovskaya--”

“Surely not monstre sacré, former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet,” was the awed response. “What’s she doing here?”

Feigning a look of surprise when he turned about, Yakov greets her warmly.  “I’m delighted you took time from your busy schedule to--”

“Know this … I have a car waiting outside; if I don’t like what I see, I’m leaving.  Which one is he?”

Proudly pointing to the young man practicing figures in the middle of the rink, he asks, “Well, what do you think?”

“He is a forest sprite.  Bring him to me.”

“Of course.  Yuri,” he yelled, “someone here to see you.”

Thinking her a new sponsor, he grudgingly draws near, mentally preparing for the standard list of questions patrons always asked.  As he walks toward her, practiced eyes appraise his body; that was par for the course.  However, he stood stock still, too stunned to process what was happening when this woman violated his space, to pry his mouth open like a show horse.

 “Good teeth at least,” she announced.  Without hesitation or his consent, she led him by the hand to a railing near the window, roughly arranging his body into a 180 degree arabesque penché. “But not very flexible is he?  We’ll have to start from square one.”

By now, he’d had enough of this nonsense and finally found his voice.  “Take your grubby hands off me! Who the hell do you think you are?”

 “The person who might be choreographing your free program,” she said cutting him to the quick with a withering glance.  “That's right, and my expectations for you are high--”  

“You're high on something … that’s for damn sure.”

“Lesson one,” she growled, “you will not use such unattractive language in my presence … ever.  Now then, Yakov claims you have the heart of a champion … he is an obvious liar, because a champion would sell his soul for any chance at victory--”

“Look, lady ... I have no idea who you are, but know this … I want victory, whatever the cost might be.  If it means winning, then I would gladly sell body and soul to you--”

"Consider carefully your next words little one, for I will demolish and then completely rebuild you.  Here are my conditions.  From the time we shake hands, I will exercise absolute control over every aspect of your life; diet, training, when you wake, when you sleep and the allotment of your free time each day.   Can you accept those terms?"

The young man before her stood tall.  “If you can guarantee me victory, then I’m on board,” he snarled. “Can you do that?”

"You have spirit ... let us hope it sustains you, but I have not received an answer.  Yes or no?”

“Yeah, okay.” 

“Excellent.  I am Lilia Baranovskaya--”

"And I am the Ice Tiger of Russia ... Yuri Plisetsky.  I take it you were a prison matron in a previous life?”

She let her eyes drift up and down his body again before responding with a warning.  “I will not tolerate insubordination.  If you are willing to accept my conditions,” she said extending a dainty hand, “your training commences at sundown this evening.  Well?”

“Bring it on,” he agreed, looking her in square the eye when he clasped her hand. 

“Once his practice time is over Yakov, he is to return home and pack his things. We have a great deal of work to do so he’ll be staying with me ... so will you, Yakov.”

“Lilia!”

“Don’t get excited old man … this doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.” 

Standing shoulder to shoulder at rink side, watching Yuri run through the _Agape_ routine for the third time, Yakov chuckled to himself.  “Didn’t expect that to escalate so quickly.  Hope you’re prepared … he can be a handful.”

“Yakov ... he may be a force of nature, but I am an immovable object.  Why does he look familiar to me?”

“I’ve been heavily promoting him since he came back from Japan.  He’s done a a lot of television interviews--”

“I don’t watch television. No, he reminds me of someone I knew long ago. Doesn't matter,” she said with a shake of her head, “is he currently enrolled in school?”

“Not exactly.  His grandfather hired a tutor to travel with us--”

“Then I will schedule his time so the academics won’t suffer.” Slipping him a business card she added, “I have a studio in my basement; here’s the address. You will arrive at my home no later than 4:00 pm.”

“Thank you for doing this Lilia--”

“Not so fast … my coaching fees and those of my nutritionist?” 

“Of course,” he swallowed, “I’ll cover them.  Oh, and Yuri has a cat … won’t be a problem, will it?”

“No … no problem at all, since you’re on the hook if it damages or soils my furniture.”

“Naturally.”

“Any questions or concerns … you know how to reach me.” 

  When he looked up from the embossed vellum card to answer, she was already gone.

 

Notes:

Monstre sacré (French):  'Sacred monster'.  A venerable public or popular figure who is considered above criticism or attack despite eccentricity or controversy.

The character, Lilia Baranovskaya was loosely based on prima ballerina assoluta of the Bolshoi Ballet, Maya Plisetskya.  Renowned for her fluidity of movement, expressive acting and willful personality, she danced on the Bolshoi stage well into her 60s.  Her career in the arts spanned almost 50 years, first as a ballerina, choreographer, teacher, and director.

Prima ballerina assoluta is a title awarded to the most notable of female ballet dancers.  Recognition as a _prima ballerina assoluta_ is a rare honor, traditionally reserved only for the most exceptional dancers of their generation.

 Arabesque: a ballet position on one leg with the other leg raised behind the body and extended in a straight line.

Penché (French): “leaning.” When a dancer is doing or in a _penché_ they are usually bent forward over one leg with the other in arabesque well above 90 degrees.  A penché’s arabesque leg can be at many different heights and doesn’t necessarily need to be pointing straight to the ceiling (referred to as a 180 degree penché) though in most classical ballets, a 180 degree penché is ideal.

Yubileyny Sports Palace is an indoor sports arena and concert complex in St. Petersburg, Russia, housing more than 7,000 seats for ice hockey and basketball.  It’s ice rink is home to the Yubileyny Sport Club, a prominent training center for figure skating.


End file.
